


Wild Wild Westeros

by Diary



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Clockpunk, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Bechdel Test Pass, On Hiatus, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21579907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diary/pseuds/Diary
Summary: AU. Kidnapping, politics, and a look at those thrown willingly or not in the mix set in a Clockpunk/Steampunk Weseros. WIP.
Relationships: Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Kudos: 1





	Wild Wild Westeros

Gilly knows the price for stealing, and she knows her sword won’t protect her if lawmen come after her. Beyond sticking someone with the pointy end, she doesn’t even know how to use the sword; there’s all these moves with how best to strike someone and all these moves people can make to avoid being struck.

Still, when she’d seen a woman take a baby out of the pram, the kind a person winds up and it’ll move in a straight line until it needs to be wound again, in a market, she’d gotten close once the woman’s back was turned, and she’d pushed it as fast as she could without breaking into a run.

When she’d found an ally near the market, she’d stopped to make absolutely sure there was no other babies inside. Finding a bottle half full of milk, a blanket, and a small stack of nappies, she’d tried to decide whether she should risk depositing those back into the market so that the mother had a chance of finding them, but she’d decided against it.

Her baby still drinks her milk, but he’s getting so big that, soon, he’ll need more. Having a bottle to heat water with and let him drink from once it’s cooled will be easier than trying to get him to drink from the brass cup she carries around, and besides getting to where he’s almost to the point of needing food other than her milk, he’s getting too heavy to carry wrapped around her chest and to where he often tries to crawl out of the wrap.

The pram has a buckled harness to keep him inside, and she hopes it’ll take a while for him to figure out how to free himself from it.

He’s never had nappies before, and she’s thankful he doesn’t seem to mind them. Cleaning the wrap and her dress every time he had to relieve himself was exhausting, and she can’t imagine she could clean the pram more than once or twice before it became useless.

Now, the baby finishes his feeding, and setting him on his blanket, she re-covers her breast. Lifting him up, she says, “Here we go.”

He coos.

After storing his blanket in her sack and getting the harness on him, she drapes her old blanket over the top of the pram. There are thin patches, but so far, he hasn’t been sun blistered since she started covering the pram with it.

Checking to make sure there aren’t nearby big or sharp rocks or dips in the ground, she winds the pram, and it starts moving.

Adjusting her bonnet as she walks beside it, she sends out a prayer for the gods to lead them to water soon. The safe plants are getting fewer and fewer, and her last meal was two days ago. Her milk’s taking longer to come. If there’s water, there’s a good chance of fish, but even if there’s not fish, it won’t be long until the water she’s stored in her brass pot will be gone, and once there’s no water-

Please, she prays. I swear, once I come across a heart tree, I’ll bleed on it. If I have fish or any other food, I’ll leave some.

Her blistered feet already bleed on the sand through her tight, thin-soled shoes, but the old gods aren’t long satisfied by such things. They want deliberately cut flesh dripped on a heart tree, and her baby’s too young right now, but as much as her stomach and heart hurt at the thought, one day, when he’s older, she’ll teach him how to safely cut the fleshy underside of his arm so that blood will flow but the wound will heal quick and, hopefully, without scars.

…

Brienne has never had much use for carriages and wagons drawn by steel horses.

They’re faster than actual horses, and unlike many, she finds it easier to use the controls than to guide regular horses from inside a carriage or wagon, but they stink, and unlike horses that only need some food and water, these require a large amount of coal and more water than even the most thirsty horse could drink. The ones with movable legs, in her experience, some gear is always breaking or getting stuck (her father’s often said steam and clock are rarely compatible), and the ones that roll on wheels, it’s easier to find and change a carriage or wagon wheel than it is them when they break.

However, Jon Snow has been her friend for near two years, and when he told her his half-sisters had been kidnapped and begged her to quickly go with him to his stepmother’s home, she’d agreed.

Since she was eighteen she’s made her living hunting down those wanted by the law, and she certainly hopes these skills will result in her quickly finding these two little girls, but before she can start, she needs information that can only be obtained at Winterfell.

Seeing the manor come into view, she nudges Jon awake. “We’ll be there soon.”

There’s a dark-haired man standing outside, and Jon murmurs, “My brother, Robb.”

This Robb, Lord Stark of Winterfell, she makes uneasy note of, is armed with a pistol.

However, when she stops, before either she or he can say anything, Jon is getting out, and Lord Stark’s body slumps. “Jon.”

“Robb.”

The two men hug, and then, Jon gestures to her. “This is Lady Brienne of Tarth Isle, an unconventional woman to be sure but the best damn bounty hunter I’ve ever met. If your lady mother accepts, Brienne will find Lady Sansa and Arya or die trying.”

She nods. Whether she deserves the praise for being the best or not, she’d never give up trying to return these girls home.

“I welcome you, Lady Tarth. Please, come have some bread and salt. What would you care to drink?”

“She’ll have regular tea. How is your lady mother, Robb? Bran and Rickon?”

Going inside, Lord Stark answers, “The boys are handling things well. I’m not sure how much Rickon understands, and little Bran is trying his best to be brave. Mother- she isn’t eating. She cries in her bed or she has to be stopped from riding out on a horse with Father’s sword. If those cowards hadn’t blown Uncle Blackfish and the rest of our Tully kin to pieces-”

In the kitchen, Jon squeezes Lord Stark’s shoulder before procuring a plate, a loaf of bread, and a box of salt from the pantry. Cutting a slice and pouring some salt on the plate, Jon says, “Here, my lady, I’ll make you some tea.”

An expression of helplessness and shame crosses Lord Stark’s face. “I apologise, I can-”

“Robb,” Jon softly says. “Let me.”

“You have my sympathy, Lord Stark,” she adds. “My sisters died in the cot, but I can’t imagine how painful it would be if they had been kidnapped. I hope to help you and them.”

“Sit down, Robb.” Giving her a grateful look, he gently pushes his lord brother into a chair.

Once the tea is made, she coats the slice of bread with salt before breaking it into pieces and quickly eating them.

“Is now a good time to see your lady mother? It needs to be soon, but if it’d help to wait a little bit-”

Shaking his head, Lord Stark stands. “Would you like some more food or something else to drink, Lady Tarth?”

“No, thank you, Lord Stark.”

“I’ll take you to see my mother, then.”

…

Lady Catelyn Tully Stark is normally a beauty, Brienne can see, but right now, the woman’s red hair is tangled and wild, her blue eyes are surrounded by red veins, and her skin is a mixture of splotchy and pasty. The blue nightdress she’s wearing clings to her with patches of sweat stains darkly visible.

“You,” she snarls with a look of furious distaste at Jon.

Jon had told her his stepmother had never been warm towards him, and she hadn’t blamed the woman, after all, what woman would be happy to have her husband’s natural born child raised with her trueborn ones, but he’d never given any hint it was this bad. She half-thinks, if not for Lord Stark’s presence, she might attack Jon.

My lady, your stepson had cried when he heard what happened to your girls, she’s tempted to say. He’d offered me his prized sword, the one thing his dead father had gifted him, and I know, if I’d refused to help, he would have sold it for the highest price he could get in order to hire the best he could find. If not for his contract with the Wall, he’d have already been hot on the trail of his missing half-sisters.

Luckily, he’d been granted a fortnight leave, or him being a fugitive would simply be the choice he made. Not lightly but with no regrets, either.

That’s the kind of man your husband’s son is, she almost says, and from everything I’ve heard, that’s the kind of man your husband was as well.

“Mother,” Robb says. “This is Lady Brienne…”

Once he’s done introducing her, Lady Stark looks between her and Jon with suspicious eyes.

She tries not to sigh.

Despite there being more famous lawwomen than her, she still constantly faces people who believe her incapable. Others don’t care if she’s capable or not; a woman who wears trousers and carries a sword is an unforgivable affront to the seven, to the old gods, to basic social decency, and so on.

Jon is one of the few people who has never doubted nor condemned her.

She feels no desire for him the way she’s felt for another man, but if he weren’t contracted to the Wall for another twenty years, she might see if he’d be willing to take her as a wife. Her father would accept a baseborn good son, and not particularly liking the thought of joining him in bed doesn’t mean she wouldn’t, and she could likely bear him, at least, one healthy child.

“My lady, your daughters don’t have time for your feelings towards me,” Jon quietly says. “I gave Arya Needle, and I have never mistreated Lady Sansa. They are my father’s trueborn children, and they are my half-sisters. I would give my life right now if it would bring them back, and I believe you know me well enough to know I speak true.”

Lady Stark stands up with her eyes clearer despite the red veins, and Brienne realises her own breath has been caught in her throat for several seconds.

“For once, I’m thankful you’re here, Jon Snow,” Lady Stark says. “Lady Tarth, please, forgive my ill-manners. If you can get my daughters back, I will pay any price I can.”

“Jon is my friend, my lady, and my father owns an Isle. I hunt those wanted by the law, because, I believe justice needs to be served. My belief in justice fuels my desire to return your two girl-children to their home. I’ve been told you have images of them. I need to see them, and if possible, it’d help for me to take some, too. A day or two worth of food would help me. And I’ll need a letter written in your hand with your signature so that, when I find them, I can hopefully convince them to come with me without me resorting to restraining them.”

Lady Stark nods. “I understand.”

“Jon, let’s go see Bran and Rickon. It’ll do them good to see you,” Lord Stark says.

Jon looks unsure, but she nods. “It’ll be better if Lady Stark and I talk in private.”

Bowing towards Lady Stark, Jon and his brother leave.

…

The coloured pictures are beautiful. Lady Sansa has her mother’s red hair and blue eyes, and though a bit gangly, she’ll soon be tall and willowy just like her mother, too.

Lady Arya is unconventional. Small with a sand complexion, her dark brown hair is cut above her ears, her brown eyes clearly show her mixed feelings towards either the camera or the camera operator, if not both, and she’s wearing a brown shirt with black trousers and a pair of boy’s red-coloured boots. Still, despite all this, she has a beauty lurking within.

“Has Jon Snow told you that this is largely the crown’s fault? The Targaryen prince and princess who escaped Robert’s rebellion have returned. I have a childhood friend in King’s Landing, and they’ve told me a Targaryen loyalist told the exiled siblings that taking my children would force King Robert to meet with them out of his affection for my late lord husband. Agreements have been made for the King, the Targayens, and their Dothraki to meet at the old glass sept in the Vale.”

Lady Stark does not look confident King Robert’s affection for Lord Stark will do her missing children much good, and she’s tempted to squeeze the lady’s hand.

“Dothraki, my lady?”

Letting out a bitter chuckle, Lady Stark nods. “My childhood friend, he was only nine when airships were invented, and he was so excited. He’d lecture maesters on how great this would be for the world at large, and he once had to be dragged away from a septon who preached against them. I was largely indifferent, but I found his excitement and sincere belief charming. Now, however- I wish those monstrous things had never been invented. The Dothraki never would have crossed the sea by sea ships.”

She doubts she’d ever ride one herself, but she is grateful for their existence. True, the Dothraki might never have been brought over without such machines, but then, the exiled Targaryen’s likely would have simply found someone else. In Tarth, airships have saved several lives by getting people who needed treatment from healers in Dorne there relatively fast.

“My son, Bran, had appendicitis, and Robb and I took him to the hospital. Sansa was old enough to take care of Rickon and Arya, and we thought it’d be better for them to all stay here.” Sniffling into a handkerchief, Lady Stark continues, “Rickon was in the crypts. He’s been finding his way down there since he could crawl. And Arya and Sansa were outside.”

“Arya, as you can see, is not particularly feminine. Sansa, though, she’s a proper little lady and so delicate, too. Arya and this butcher boy who comes- came over when his father is hunting the forest were playing with wooden swords, and Sansa was working on her embroidery in the shade. Robb thinks she might have pricked one of the kidnappers with a needle. Unfortunately, the butcher boy was killed, and the girls were taken. The manor was raided, but they didn’t find Rickon, thank the new gods and old.”

“My lady, I’m really not sure how to put this delicately, but um, the Dothraki-”

“My girls have likely been raped,” is the flat response. “They could be mutilated, too. I know this. Arya, she’d stronger than most boys her age, but despite her spirit and interest in boyish things, she’s a kind child. She was a true friend to that butcher’s boy, and she’s always treated servants and other non-gentry much like those in Dorne do.”

“And Sansa- all she’s ever wanted is to marry a handsome man of a good house and have children of her own. I can’t give her that if she comes back deflowered, if she comes back missing limbs. I can’t give Arya- she’ll be hardhearted. But they are my children, Lady Tarth. I carried them in my womb, they suckled from my own breasts, and I’ve read to them, sang to them, helped Sansa with her hair, and personally tended to Arya’s bruises. Whatever has been done to them, I want my girls back home.”

Nodding, she squeezes Lady Stark’s hand.

From what she knows, Lady Stark is likely right to be wary of the meeting between the king and the returned Targaryens going well. King Robert might have sincerely loved Lord Stark, she doesn’t know enough to make such a determination one way or another, but he’s not going to do much for two girl-children of no direct relation to him. The best chance the girls have is being removed from their kidnappers and returned safely home before everyone reaches the agreed upon meeting place.

“That sword Jon Snow gave to Arya, Needle, I never let her take it outside of the manor. Sansa never had a chance, but perhaps, if Arya had had it instead of a wooden sword-”

“Lady Stark, the ones who took your daughters did wrong, not you. These Dothraki and Targaryen siblings had no right to go after two young girl-children, and even if Lady Arya had Needle, she wouldn’t have been able to fight them all off, my lady.”

Suddenly, Lady Stark chuckles. “If you do manage to get my girls, don’t call Arya a lady. She’s a lord’s daughter, her heart was kind before all this, but the truth is, she was never meant to marry a lord and bear his children. I- Of course, Robb would always allow her to reside in Winterfell, but I always consoled myself with the thought, once Sansa marries, Arya would always have somewhere else to go if anything should ever happen to Winterfell. Now, if my girls are able to be returned alive, I must hope the marriages I manage to secure for my boys, that one of them, at least, will be welcoming to my girls as well.”

“I swear to the old and new gods, Lady Stark, I will return your girls or die trying.”

…

“The Dorthraki went in three separate directions once the girls were kidnapped,” Robb tells her, and he points them out. “And no one knows if my sisters were taken together or on separate paths. Are you sure you won’t take a steel horse or two and carriage?”

Finishing saddling the gelding, a young, strong creature with all signs of a good temperament, Jon says, “Brienne is a true horsewoman. She’ll go faster on horseback than carriage, and if she needs to get a carriage later on, she’ll be able to buy or rent one.”

“Aye,” Robb says. “But no pistol? I don’t doubt your skill, my lady, if Jon says you’re talented, I believe him, but a pistol is more effective than a sword.”

“Only if one knows how to use it. I’ve never learned how to do more than shoot straight. Against a moving or attacking target, this often isn’t that helpful.”

Her corset is made of silk, and under her trousers, she wears silk hose.She hopes, if she’s ever shot, this will save her life, but having easily ripped silk before, she has her doubts about the stories she’s heard of silk stopping bullets.

So far, no one shooting her has managed to hit her, though, once, a bullet did graze her cheek, and the nasty scar left is unlikely to ever fade.

“Your lady mother is coming,” Jon announces.

They turn, and she feels her breath catch.

Now dressed with her hair done up, Lady Catelyn Stark looks every bit the Lady of Winterfell.

Though, the large sword she’s lugging around is-

Robb hurries over to help his mother.

“Lady Tarth, this was my husband’s sword, Ice. Please, take it, and use it in your quest to find my girls. If need be, protect them with it.”

…

Finishing his meal, Khal Drogo watches in irritation as the silver girl flinches at the noise the prisoner and hostage girl are making.

This silver girl is unlikely to ever be his Khalessi. She’s beautiful and exotic but has little spirit and obviously despises him.

The Dosh Khaleen forbade rape before he was born, and he’s always followed this. Once the silver girl’s brother has the iron seat, more of his khalasar will come on the airships, and soon, he and the silver prince will both rule this vast kingdom; they’ll take the grassy areas, make the people they find slaves, concubine, wives, and in some cases, husbands, and the silver prince can rule the large cities. If the silver girl refuses to consummate their marriage, he will take concubine, and one of them will give him a son worthy of leading an even greater khalasar one day.

“The khalessi wishes them to be quiet,” Rakharo says. “Should I cut out their tongues?”

“No. She would like that less.”

The fire-haired girl is weak, and if not for her being such a valuable bargaining chip, she’d be a slave, and perhaps, a concubine. Her younger sister, however- he’d almost think she’d lost a fight, perhaps, against the boy she was training with when they found her, and he’d think more of her, not less, if this was true. Hair grows back, and though Dorthraki women aren’t bound by this ancient ruling, those who follow it demonstrate they are just as honourable and strong in spirit as any bloodrider.

If she weren’t so important to the plan of getting the silver prince his iron seat, he’d give the respect of tying her behind a horse to walk. Likely, she’d either be killed in her attempts to escape or willingly lye down to let herself be dragged. If she were older and had bled several moon bloods, she might be convinced to join a strong warrior in marriage and be a valuable raider herself.

Instead, she and her sister are confined to a guarded wagon with the wounded golden-haired man. He’s feverish, and the fire-haired girl is scared of pain and death. Simple ropes are enough for them, but the warrior child has had to be put in chains.

It’s only right the gold man be killed. What family would want him back with his only one hand? Even with missing limbs or being unable to see or hear women can sometimes bear healthy children, but only healthy, whole men can truly fight.

However, the silver brother and sister insist he be kept alive, that he’s just as valuable as, if not more than, the girls.

…

It’s storming outside when a gust of wind disturbs the fireplace inn Bronn’s eating near, and looking up, any irritation is replaced by amused curiosity.

A drowned rat of a dwarf trudges in, and based on the high-quality soaked clothes and the two holstered pistols strapped one on the dwarf’s right hip and the other under his left armpit, he’d bet this is Tyrion Lannister, though what in the names of the seven a Lannister is doing in these parts, he can’t even particularly imagine.

He watches the little lord go to the innkeeper, he watches the twitchy innkeeper clearly apologising, and then, he watches intently as the innkeeper hands over a bell.

Coming into the dining area, the little lord rings it vigorously, and once all the chatter has stopped, his voice is clear and strong, “Apologies for interrupting your dinner this dreary evening, good people. I am the Lannister imp, Tyrion, son of Tywin, and I’ve been informed, despite my desperate desire for a bed with a pillow to lay my head on, every room of this quaint inn has been filled.”

Holding up two or three gold dragons, he asks, “Is there someone here willing to help me remedy this?”

Standing, he says, “You can have my room.”

“Now, there’s a clever man,” Lannister says, and when Bronn gets close enough, Lannister tosses three dragons.


End file.
